Sugar And Cream, Please
by Dynst
Summary: Santana worked at a bakery, still nursing a painful high school love. A coworker watched over her. Somewhere in between, there were love and friendship. AU where Santana and Brittany split ways after high school graduation. OC's POV.


**Title:** Sugar And Cream, Please.

**Pairing/Characters**: Hint of Brittana. From OC's POV.

**Genre:** Slice of Life.

**Summary:** Santana worked at a bakery, still nursing a painful high school love. A coworker watched over her. Somewhere in between, there were love and friendship.

* * *

><p>Leslie was minding her own damn business when Rebecca jammed her knobby elbow against her side.<p>

"Fuck," Leslie pushed Rebecca's shoulder in retaliation, knocking her a step back. "I told you to stop that. Your elbow is fucking bony. It hurts as fuck."

Rebecca ignored her complaint, as always, and nudged Leslie with her elbow again. "Look, look!" She whispered excitedly, gesturing to Santana who had the register. "It's happening again."

"And this is surprising because…." Leslie glared at Rebecca, but Rebecca was too busy watching Santana suffering by the register in front of the customer, who was very blonde and very pretty and apparently was Santana's one true love. If Leslie was anyone else, she would nod in sympathy because the engagement ring on the blonde's finger was painfully obvious.

But Leslie was Leslie, and she wasn't going to give a fuck.

Leslie wondered if the blonde—Brandy or Brenda or something with a B—was straight or something. Then Santana was a fucking idiot for getting into that situation then. Whatever.

"Poor Santana," Rebecca whispered. "I wonder if she's alright."

No, Santana was doing fantastic. Obviously. Having the woman she had been in love with since high school marrying someone else was definitely Santana's idea of happiness.

But Leslie was going to be a nice bitch today and not say anything, even though Rebecca's slowness pissed her off.

There was a crash, and Leslie didn't have to look to know that Santana probably drop something in her attempt to appear composed in front of the blonde, again. Leslie sighed.

Santana made eye contact with her, and Leslie raised her arm and twirled her index finger.

Santana nodded gratefully.

Rebecca turned to her.

"What?" Leslie hissed.

"What was that?" Rebecca asked. There was an ugly frown on her face, and Leslie was tempted to make a grandma joke.

"I'll take over the register for her so she could have a long, meaningful fight with that blonde over there, where she won't confess her feelings, and the blonde will be mad at her, and she will sulk in the bathroom," Leslie said. Then, "Don't go to the bathroom for a few hours. Santana's a bitch when someone interrupts her emotional breakdown."

"That's horrible," Rebecca cried, and Leslie shrugged. "We should at least comfort her."

Leslie was tempted to pat Rebecca's shoulder with a shake of the hand, and a "Oh my, you are so new," because anyone who had been here long enough knew that Santana had an emotional break down every week, right after the blonde came in for the usual order of fresh baked bread, two croissants, and a hot chocolate.

"Well, _you_ could try to comfort her," Leslie said. "I, on the other hand, will mind my own damn business and do my damn job."

"You're fucking heartless," Rebecca accused, and Leslie was too tired to give a fuck. "I don't even know why we used to go out."

"I ask myself the same thing," Leslie retorted. She glanced at Santana, who was leading the blonde to a table so that they could sit down and talk, and counted fifteen minutes and thirty-six seconds until the two began fighting.

* * *

><p>Leslie needed to go to the bathroom. She checked her watch.<p>

It had been four hours since the blonde left. Santana was probably done crying in the bathroom by now. Thank fucking god. Leslie didn't think she could hold out for much longer.

The employee bathroom was void of crying when Leslie walked in. It was brightly light (There was one time Santana managed to fucked up the lights, don't ask why), and no hysterical mess was in sight.

Leslie sighed in relief.

She finished her business, and just when she was washing her hand, she heard it.

Leslie fervently hope it was her imagination.

She turned off the faucet, and sure enough, there was a muffled sob, like someone who wanted so badly to break into pieces, but didn't dare to.

The paper dispenser was way too loud, but Leslie could still hear Santana's grief echoing against the wall.

Fuck.

Leslie didn't want to deal with this. This was something messy and, bleh, _emotional_, and it wasn't her forte. It was Rebecca's forte, being kind and a good listener and good advice giver and all of that shit.

Santana wasn't her problem. Leslie got along with her alright, but Santana's problems were Santana's problems. There was no need for Leslie to feel bad. None.

Damn it.

Santana was sitting in the stall, face wet and dripping make-up and gross.

"Let's go to my place," Leslie sighed, handing Santana a paper towel because she knew that Santana managed to cry through the two rolls of toilet paper (happened every time). She didn't say, "So you could go and talk and cry about your feeling and shit" because she was Leslie and Santana was Santana, and god forbid that anyone of them would admit that they were, urg,_ friends_.

"I don't need your fucking pity," Santana hissed in between sobs. Leslie would never be able to figure out how Santana managed to be a bitch while in emotional break down, but she could.

"Good, because I'm not giving you any," said Leslie. "Let's go already. I want sushi and the Japanese place is going to close soon."

"I don't want sushi," Santana, the ungrateful bitch, said.

"Too bad," Leslie said. "Get your own damn food then."

"I want Breadstix," Santana sniffed.

"What are you, a masochist?" Leslie frowned.

An awkward silence lodged between them.

In all of the time that Leslie had known Santana, there was an unspoken rule that you-do-not-mention-Breadstix-or-anything-related-to-or-reminded-Santana-of-her-one-true-love. It just didn't happen. Ever.

Too bad Leslie wasn't going to apologize.

"She is really getting married," Santana buried her face in her arms.

Leslie shuffled her feet, wishing that she had more tact for this. The blonde was really going for it, tying her life with someone else, someone who wasn't Santana. It made Leslie angry in a way that she didn't understand.

She remembered that every week, Santana would wait, heart filled with hope, even though it was already a lost battle, and she would be broken in the end, left in this cold bathroom to cry alone.

One-sided love sucked.

"Let's go," Leslie said gently. "We'll get Thai."

Santana didn't say anything for a while, but then finally, she rose from the toilet seat and followed Leslie out of the bathroom.

* * *

><p>To be continued.<p> 


End file.
